


Absolution

by Ebyru



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Banter, Bottom Illya, Coping, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Humor, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Movie(s), Seduction, Top Napoleon, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 12:07:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5247707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebyru/pseuds/Ebyru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya wants to surrender in a way he hasn’t before. And it’s all because of a dark-haired, flirtatious man with too much culture and not enough self-preservation skills. In return, Napoleon offers Illya release from consequences, obligations, and fear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> First foray into the Napollya world, and I hope I don’t disappoint; there are so many amazing writers in this fandom! Here’s just a tiny taste of my mind. I adore the idea of bottom!Illya, but it seems not as many people agree.

Napoleon has a way of getting underneath Illya’s skin like no one else, save for Gaby when she’s in one of her playful moods. The pair of them seem to tag each other, harassing Illya on alternating days with verbal jabs, physical prods and their matching pleased grins. The difference between them, however, is that Illya’s attraction is greater with one than the other. Napoleon, that is.

Gaby remains the most amazing woman Illya has ever met, but she just didn’t challenge him. When he pushed enough against her taunts, she stepped back. She stopped. Also, she hasn’t tried to kiss him again since the Vinciguerra mission. That says a lot.

She stops her teasing long before Napoleon will. That American seems to be expecting a specific reaction that hasn’t happened yet. And his curiosity is infectious to the point that Illya seeks that same place. That they will arrive at that climax one day, he can’t be certain.

 

\---

 

It’s while in Athens, a year after Vinciguerra, the city calm enough to settle even Illya’s nerves, that Gaby eases back with her mocking. Her words are soft – funny, if Illya is feeling generous. She smells of chamomile cream and mint. It’s a new scent for her: a clear bottle with a silk bow around the neck of it.

Every time she uses it, she slides it gently back in her top drawer. It strikes Illya then that it must be a present; she never treats her own possessions so carefully. But he can’t be sure who the perfume is from.

She tucks her dark hair in a messy bun, sliding on sunglasses, and even pecks him on the cheek as she slips past him. She isn’t bothered by his presence in her room despite him having his own.

“Where are you going?” he asks because she seems so pleased.

“For a walk,” she announces. “Want to come?”

Illya shakes his head. The sun is too bright at this time; makes his eyes hurt.

She shrugs, wiggling her fingers. “Suit yourself.”

 

\---

 

When he returns to his room, Napoleon saunters past him towards the bathroom in nothing but shorts. Technically they each have their own room, but there’s a door to cross the threshold so they can discuss the mission more easily. Gaby’s room is right across the hall because she asked for her own room. Waverly accepted anything she wanted; he’s very “fond” of her.

Sharing with Napoleon is both a burden and a blessing. His graceful movements are a please to watch, enough to make Illya’s jitters stop, his heart beat slower. His ease with languages is also fascinating; he sings in the shower in all of them. It never ceases to amaze Illya.

The issue Illya has, the single problem, is his yearning to infiltrate that elegance. He wants to stand behind him in the shower, and wash his back while he sings. He wants to help blow dry his hair in the bathroom mirror. He wants to lie on his king size bed, side by side, watching him as he sleeps. He wants to kiss the smirk from his face until he is as fazed as Illya is.

Napoleon would likely let him do a few of those things; that’s not the problem. Everyone can touch him. Gaby cuddles with him on the sofa, watching black and white films. Waverly pats him on the back and compliments his new suits. Women fawn over him like children with superheroes. It’s all very surface though. Napoleon doesn’t open up to anyone. And Illya can’t only have the superficial like everyone else when his longing goes as deep as marrow. He wants all of Napoleon.

Napoleon sings in the bathroom again, this time in Italian. Napoleon insists on using his bathroom because it apparently gets more natural light. He hums when he runs out of lyrics, Illya wondering if his eyes are open or shut, if the water is cool or warm. If he would welcome his scarred hands against his body.

The door opens, but he stays inside, spending half an hour or more with the door cracked to let some of the steam out. Illya shifts on his wooden chair, his breathing faster. He peeks from behind a book he’s read five times, licking his lips when a flash of skin crosses in view. The book isn’t helping; he switches to chess.

Napoleon opens the door wider, a towel around his waist. He dabs cologne against his throat with two fingers, still humming. Illya keeps his eyes down on the board. He captures a black pawn. He can smell the cologne from here – a rich, heavy scent, slightly sweet. He allows himself a moment to stare as Napoleon combs fingers through his dark, shiny hair. The ends are dripping down his neck, each one sliding slower than the next. When he looks back up to the source, Napoleon’s eyes are focused on his in the mirror.

Illya looks down, clearing his throat as he considers his next move. He touches a piece, and makes a noise he hopes sounds convincing enough. Napoleon continues to hum, crossing over to his own room in the same white towel.

Gaby barges in – she refuses to knock - as Illya is very openly staring at him as he passes. His back is to them so he doesn’t see Illya’s expression, but she does. When Illya is tired of the breach of privacy, he places a chair underneath the door handle, and it usually does the trick. Today he forgot. She said she was going for a walk anyway.

“Hello boys,” she says with a twirl of her yellow dress. The Greek air does wonders for her mood; the people and the food all agree with her. Illya finds their careless attitudes irritating, especially since he has to guard his every look and word so Napoleon won’t suspect his feelings.

Gaby falls gently down on the sofa, the one right next to the chess table where Illya sits. He turns to her, giving up the pretense of playing.

Gaby tilts her head back so her voice will reach Napoleon. “I forgot to thank you for the bundle,” she says. “The perfumes and creams are lovely.” She smiles at Illya, her brow rising.

He frowns with his entire face.

“Not a problem. I have a friend who loves sending them to me,” Napoleon replies from his room.

Illya has just noticed the door is ajar. It’s enough for him to be seen bending towards the bed, his towel falling off his hips. He collects his boxer shorts. The details are foggy from this distance, but the snap of the elastic says it all. Illya swallows with difficulty; Gaby watches him with mischief in her eyes.

She laughs into her hand when Illya shifts in his seat. “I’ll be going then. I want to buy a new dress for the meetup with the contact later. Be good you two.”

Illya narrows his eyes at her. Napoleon says, “We always are,” while sliding a white undershirt on. The muscles in his arms flex as he reaches for the rest of his clothing laid across the bed. Illya has to leave too.

 

\---

 

The air infuriates him. Everyone smells wonderful and pleasant; every woman with dark hair reminds him of Gaby – of her and the not-so-mystery man who gave her such nice perfume. He hoped it was Waverly. The man clearly has an attachment to her that could rival his want of Napoleon.

Illya walks faster whenever he passes someone who vaguely looks, dresses or smells of Napoleon. The streets are crowded this time of day, so he ends up jogging past these people, his heart racing by the time he isn’t surrounded by copies.

He takes a moment for himself, seated on a shaded park bench. He pushes his hat further down to his eyes; make him appear even less approachable, and he breathes deeply. Just breathes. Keeps breathing until Napoleon isn’t so suffocating, so devastating a thought for him. He’s just a man. He has to tell himself. He’s just a man. A beautiful man, he is, but a man all the same.

The birds work along with him, giving him a rhythm to follow. They distract sufficiently that he pushes his back as it was. There are a number of people around, chatting and walking their pets. Across the park, nearer to the street, a man smiles at him. His face is familiar but Illya hasn’t controlled his stress enough yet to think clearly who he is.

Something about him tells Illya there will be trouble if he comes closer. Every step forward is a new jarring beat, an increase to his heart rate. He stands from the bench, not sure what else to do. He has to prepare to fight or flee. He never runs. He will fight if he needs to. His hand twitches – first the right, then the left. Then they both do. Something is amiss. There are so many people in the park, children too. He was too lost in thought before to notice.

The man is close enough now that Illya can see his expression: slightly manic, a crazed look in his eyes. His lip trembles as if he can’t decide whether to laugh or cry. And suddenly Illya remembers that face entirely too well.

“Everyone get out of the park now!” he shouts at the top of his lungs.

The man opens his jacket to reveal enough explosives to make a dent in this park. From the corner of Illya’s eye, he spots slicked, dark hair, a grey pinstripe suit, and those dark blue eyes. This time it’s not a reminder; it’s the real one.

“Run, everyone. Run!” he yells louder, hoping Napoleon will follow his directions as well. He wishes he spoke Greek, but Illya hopes his body language will display the urgency.

Mothers run first. Everyone else seems dazed, cemented in place. Napoleon rushes towards those people and tells them enough to get them moving. The man in the jacket, ex-KGB – a good soldier dismissed because Illya beat him out of a spot – reveals the trigger in his hand and doesn’t hesitate to activate it.

Napoleon is the closest to him, pushing teenagers out of the way of park debris. The blast is so loud that Illya forgets language; he shouts sounds and noises, his ears buzzing like a hive. He can’t see Napoleon anymore with the thick cloud of smoke. There’s so much of it, so many calls for help. There’s nothing left of the bomber at least.

Illya drags himself up slowly, the explosion still ringing through his head. People cry and scream; he can’t tell them apart. Suddenly, he hears a softer voice, closer. A two-syllable word – not his then.

Then it shifts into something longer, something nearer. It’s _Illya, Illya_. And he snaps towards his name instantly; no one else knows him here, except Gaby and she went to the city.

“Illya! Help me with these people,” says Napoleon.

It’s almost too hard to believe he’s using his name properly. After a cursory glance around, he nods. He doesn’t completely care about these people. They aren’t part of the mission. That man just disrupted their work. But Napoleon insists, and Illya wants to make sure he isn’t hurt. “OK. Wait there, I come.”

Illya spends a moment cursing at bits of Urie’s body, kicking them aside as he collects the detonator. If Napoleon is hurt, he will send it to his family and tell them how disgraceful their son is.

“Some help sometime this century would be great, Illya,” says Napoleon. Again, he’s said his name correctly. Not Red Peril, or even Peril. Not some insulting childish version of Illya either meant to pick at his nerves.

“I come,” he repeats, and strides over faster.

They help men and women to the street, getting them ambulances and rides to hospitals. Some people weren’t so lucky. Napoleon hands their wallets to the authorities, murmuring solemnly in Greek.

Illya uses this moment to scan Napoleon. Legs and arms are fine. Face is mostly okay, a few scratches. The injuries could be internal; he’ll need to ask when they get back to their hotel rooms.

 

\---

 

Napoleon sits on the couch where Gaby was, his legs crossed and nursing a tumbler of scotch. He’s right near the round table with Illya’s unfinished chess game. Illya removes his jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair. Napoleon moves a piece; Illya pretends not to see. In fact, he refuses to make eye contact at all.

Somehow, this is all his fault. His rushing out for peace and air caused not only everyone else injuries, but possibly some to Napoleon. He likely only followed Illya because of how abruptly he ran out, too.

Illya feels a twinge in his knee when he takes his seat in front of the chess set; he was lucky. He could have no knee. From the corner of his eye, he can see Napoleon’s smile. He seems all right. He unbuttons his jacket so he can lean back more comfortable on the sofa, his arm against the headrest of it.

“You’re awfully quiet even for you. Is there something the matter?” Napoleon asks after a moment. His smile remains there.

Illya shakes his head. “No. no problem.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were hiding something from me,” continues Napoleon, knocking the rest of his scotch back.

Illya sighs. “Actually, yes. I have question. You called me Illya. Why?” he carefully keeps his eyes lowered.

“Seemed like the only thing that would get you to respond. I tried everything else.” Napoleon stands to refill his glass. Then returns to the sofa. “But that’s not your real question, is it?”

“Why don’t you go take bath? I want to play chess alone.” Illya leans forward, taking a bishop.

Napoleon hums, considering it. “Are you sure you don’t need one first? Your hands are shaking. Might settle the nerves.”

Illya hadn’t been paying attention to his hands; so careful he was with his eyes. He looks up then. Napoleon is still smiling. He sees too much with those cunning eyes. “I am fine. Didn’t you fall in explosion?”

Napoleon opens his jacket, pressing his hand against his ribs on one side, then the other. He touches his head, rubs his knees, and rolls his shoulders. “No, I think everything is how it was before your little dramatic exit—”

“Was not dramatic! I wanted air. You are suffocating me,” he growls out. He points to Napoleon’s unused room. “That is where you should go. Not here. This is my side. Go to your side.” His hands shake worse when he tries to continue his chess game.

There’s a long enough stretch of silence that Illya wonders if he was too blunt. If he may have hurt Napoleon’s feelings. They’re a team in spite of themselves, and he doesn’t want his want of Napoleon to affect their efficiency in the field. When he glances up, too much time having passed, Napoleon still smiles.

“I think it’s time you let me take care of you,” he says. He places his glass in the centre of Illya’s game so he can’t continue.

“What are you doing?” asks Illya. “I don’t need help from you. I am KGB—”

“Not right now you aren’t,” cuts in Napoleon. “Your tremors are getting worse. I suggest you follow me into my bedroom.”

Illya spits out, “I am not one of your whores. I don’t need to follow you. Stop making joke.”

Napoleon turns very serious. “Do not speak about women that way, first of all. And secondly--,” he says, touching Illya’s hand. “--I know you much better than you think, comrade.”

Illya pulls his hand away, trying to hide it behind his back. His nerves are fraying. This is almost too real to be anything but a dream. Napoleon has never offered to be kind to him, to touch him, to help him with coping. Napoleon only thinks of himself. Napoleon is selfish and stylish and – and –

Napoleon stands up, hands on his hips. “Are you going to come quietly or do I need to make this a fight like with all other situations?”

“Why do you do this?” he asks softly. Illya is more afraid than he’s ever been in his life, but it’s not a fear of death. No, it’s the fear of finally reaching that unattainable fantasy once and for all. Most of all, he’s worried he won’t please Napoleon the way he has been known to please women.

“What are you so afraid of?” asks Napoleon, cupping Illya’s cheek. He bends down on his knees, and this close, Illya can see the scratches and bruises from the explosion. They may not hurt or be very serious, but it’s his fault. He made Napoleon’s face look this way. His eyes are soft when he asks, “Don’t you trust me?”

“Too much,” whispers Illya. His hands shaking so much harder. He worries he will hit Napoleon, and kill him instantly, just to be out of this position.

Napoleon laughs quietly. He presses his other hand over Illya’s knuckles. “That’s perfect. Come with me – _Illya_.”

And Illya has to follow now. If they fight now, if one of them dies in a future mission, it won’t matter. Because they will be equals in this, and it will mean something to them both.

 

\---

 

Despite his shaking, Illya does not struggle when Napoleon lies him down against the bed. The ceiling is bright with an intricate chandelier. His eyes fix on it to keep from looking elsewhere. The lights dim with something Napoleon does off to the side, and he doesn’t move because he wasn’t told to.

Illya’s insides jump at that thought.

Napoleon controls him now. Against all he was taught, Illya has given in to Napoleon, and he is accepting of it. Because it is Napoleon. Because no one else would endure so much of his arguing. Because Napoleon can be the sweetest person in the world when he chooses, but it’s easier not to be.

“Still alive over there?” teases Napoleon. He climbs onto the bed. “I was just trying to set a nice mood for us.”

Illya swallows, looking off to the side. Napoleon hovers over him. “There is no mood,” he says.

Napoleon laughs; knows he’s being difficult just to be difficult. “I see your hand is relaxing a bit.”

The fingers in Illya’s right hand twitch as if in response. “No,” he says. “I am just tired now. Long day.”

“Yes, of course.” Napoleon stares as if he’s never seen Illya before, his eyes raking across his skin, down his face and chest, arms. “Did you hurt anywhere else besides your knee in the park?”

“I did not get _hurt_.” It sounds like his usual Russian pride, but mostly he says it so Napoleon won’t worry. He doesn’t think he can handle Napoleon, with his all-seeing eyes and scraped face, upset over his injuries.

“All right,” says Napoleon. “I’m going to undress you.” He rolls his sleeves up. “Is there any problem with me doing that?”

Illya’s mouth goes very dry. In all of his dreams, his desperate thoughts, he was the one taking care of Napoleon. He would bathe him, wash his hair, treat his wounds after he was stupid and rushed into a room full of guns as usual. He would massage him, if he liked. Kiss every part of his body because every part is given as much care as the next.

“I can undress myself,” he groans. But Napoleon presses his hands against his shoulders when he tries to sit up.

“I didn’t ask you to do that. I said I will undress you. Is that okay?” Napoleon’s eyes darken visibly as Illya’s widen. “If it’s not, you’re free to get up and leave.”

This is so much worse than every fantasy Illya has had combined. No wonder women cannot refuse Napoleon. Between the slyness of his words, the severity of his meaning, and the fluidity of his body he is made to rule the bedroom.

“I am not woman!” Illya protests. It’s all an act at this point. He grows in his slacks with every second that Napoleon’s eyes bore into him.

“Yes, I’m quite aware. Is that the issue then? Are you not into other men?” Napoleon starts to get up. “In that case—”

“No!” he exclaims, reaching for Napoleon’s wrist. He clears his throat, and screws his eyes shut when Napoleon laughs at the outburst. Illya moves his hands way slowly; he crosses them on his chest. The tremor is gone.

“Well, then. I’ll continue.” Napoleon presses Illya’s hands down on each side of him. “Sit up now.”

Illya leaps up as if shocked into doing so. He can’t face Napoleon this close though. His eyes keep averting, looking elsewhere. He’s taken note of everything in Napoleon’s room already – chandelier, small bathroom, dresser, hairdryer, shoes lined up, the man himself.

Napoleon begins to hum. It’s the same Italian song from earlier, and this close it’s the single most sensual thing Illya has ever heard. Napoleon’s voice flows like a river, cool and clear, as he lifts Illya’s arms and drags the sweater over his head. He takes the hat afterwards, trying it on for a brief moment – just to tease. Illya frowns, but says nothing. Napoleon holds his face in both hands with a laugh. “I’m not torturing you. You can speak you know.”

“Nothing to say,” he grits out. If he speaks he might make noises he doesn’t mean to. He might reveal just how much he wants this.

“Just make sure to breathe,” jokes Napoleon. He opens Illya’s belt carefully, glancing up. “Still okay with this.”

Illya swallows, nodding. For anyone else, his creased brow would frighten them off, or make them hesitate at least. Napoleon knows him well enough to see through it. He can see that it’s a mask to keep some semblance of his dignity.

“Illya,” he says gently, sliding a finger along the zipper of his slacks. “Can you lift your hips?”

“Да” he says. “I mean y-yes.”

Napoleon leans forward, sucking Illya’s lip into his mouth. “I almost forgot how lovely your voice is in Russian.” He adds with a pout, “You’ve been speaking only English lately.”

Illya can’t open his eyes, overcome by the tingling on his lips. He licks the remnants off. If Napoleon doesn’t hurry, he won’t last beyond another kiss like that. Illya’s lashes flutter as he opens his eyes. Napoleon looks like he’s _starving_ , his eyes nothing but pupils.

“Was it that good?” he asks with his usual cocky tone.

Illya wants to nod, but knows he shouldn’t stroke his expansive ego. Enough people have told Napoleon how wonderful he is. Illya will not join the list. “Was okay,” he says instead, grinning.

Napoleon pushes Illya back against the bed. “Let’s see if I can’t make it better.” He shimmies Illya’s hips towards the edge of the bed so his feet can press down on the floor. Illya cranes his neck to see what’s happening, and realizes he’s completely naked. Napoleon has all of his clothes still on, though he looks undone already.

“Make sure you keep your hips just like this,” he tells Illya, gripping the length of him. He strokes a few times, seemingly mesmerized by the twitching of Illya’s cock.

“Да…” he moans out, his head falling back. He’ll do anything Napoleon wants if his hands never leave his skin. Napoleon keeps his right hand stroking, steady, while his other arm traces patterns across his stomach and hips.

“Very nice,” says Napoleon with a growl. “Don’t mind if I taste do you?”

Illya bites back whimper when he’s suddenly engulfed by warmth and suction, a perfect tight fit around his cock that nearly makes him come right then. He breathes faster, his chest burning with each inhale. Napoleon sucks with purpose and determination, his mouth sliding all the way down, all the way up.

“Да,” says Illya, biting into his bottom lip. There’s a laugh from the edge of the bed. Napoleon’s hand now holding his hips flat while his other hand reaches for Illya’s.

“Just squeeze my hand if you feel like you might jerk. Don’t worry about hurting me.”

Illya nods, his eyes shut tight. _Please_ , he thinks. And, _hurry I can’t last_ when Napoleon continues to hum with pleasure. But Napoleon must know all that because he settles in comfortably for it, then just goes. His tongue slides flat along his shaft, then sucks the head into his mouth until he has a grip between his lips. He pulls him in easy, slurping to the base of him, his muscles fluttering and tightening. Napoleon might have experience doing this, but Illya has no experience receiving.

Illya curses so loud-- first in English, then in Russian – praying no one has bugged their rooms. Then he can’t seem to find any words besides _Да! Да!_ And every time he cries out with that, Napoleon sucks harder, his tongue circling his cockhead, gagging against him, his arm pressing his hips down. Their hands twine like rope, their fingers fitting so simply.

When Napoleon starts to pull off, a slow sweep of tongue following the underside of his cock, Illya falls into a universe of stars. A galaxy of lights twinkle behind his eyes. Napoleon taps his thigh to get his attention. He opens his eyes as much as he can, the suction to glorious it’s almost painful to watch. Napoleon licks into the slit of his cock, tongue pointed and so, so wet, and Illya screams out a roar as he climaxes just from seeing it. He spurts all over himself. Napoleon leans back to watch it unfold.

“Am I that good or has it been that long?” he teases, his shoulder moving. Illya can’t speak to complain about the lack of the view. He can’t change positions other than to crane his head. But Napoleon gets the message anyway. “Sorry. Give me a second.”

Napoleon climbs onto the bed, straddling Illya’s thighs. He’s not bothered by the mess there or the fact that his pants likely cost more than Illya’s entire wardrobe. His cock peeks out from the v of his pants, and he takes it out fully so Illya can watch. He strokes the length so quickly, his hips humping in the air as Illya stares in awe. He pants, his mouth full and wet from sucking Illya’s cock, and it makes him twitch underneath Napoleon.

“Да,” he tells Napoleon, his eyes glossy, because he loves the effect it has on him. And he wants everything Napoleon has to offer. “Да,” he repeats, feeling himself harden bit by bit. Napoleon runs his hands through the slick on Illya’s stomach and thighs, and uses it on his cock, the sounds pornographic as he strokes quicker.

Then Napoleon gasps, throwing his head back, and the column of his throat, the bob of his Adam’s apple, is the most erotic image Illya has seen yet. He only receives Napoleon’s release against his skin, too busy watching his expression to see the moment it explodes out of him. It layers itself on top of Illya’s come. A sticky symbol of the next step in their relationship. Or so Illya hopes. Maybe this means nothing to Napoleon. Maybe it’s just one of many flings in his life—

Napoleon laps at the come all over Illya, and chuckles when it makes his hips jerk upward. “Easy there. Not everyone has the same refraction period as when they were teenagers.” He runs his hands up and down Illya’s thighs, admiring his filling cock. “Though I appreciate the enthusiasm.”

“No time for jokes, Cowboy,” says Illya with a scowl. Tentatively, he presses his fingers into Napoleon’s hips, feeling the firm skin and muscle there.

“Wow, someone is cranky after their first orgasm.” He grins, pressing his ass down against Illya’s cock in reprimand. “How many more until you’re as passive as a sheep?”

Illya blinks slowly. “I don’t know. Why don’t we find out?”

Napoleon lies down on top of Illya. “What if it takes too long? I’m sure Gaby and Waverly will want to know what happened in the park.”

“Then, they will wait,” he says with a grin that feels too wide for his face.

Napoleon traces Illya’s lips. “And our mission?”

“It can wait,” he says, nibbling at Napoleon’s finger briefly.

“Oh, really?” Napoleon leans closer, touching his nose to Illya’s. “You don’t mind?” He parts his lips, lashes fanning his face so elegantly as he moves in.

“Да,” murmurs Illya, placing a hand at the back of Napoleon’s neck. Their lips touch softly, and it almost makes the kiss seem sweeter. This moment, he realizes, is more erotic than everything else they’ve shared. Now he can taste everywhere Napoleon’s mouth has been – and it has been busy – and it’s no less delicious for it.

Napoleon ends the kiss, his lips trailing down Illya’s neck gently. “I think you should block the door if you don’t want Gaby coming in while I try to make you come in every manner possible. Don’t you?”

Illya throws Napoleon off to rush to the front door.

**Author's Note:**

> comments always appreciated. :)


End file.
